Those who study history deeply understand: there are no true coincidences.
Every event that appears accidental is often the result of countless hidden threads—causes buried in the past, foreshadowing woven across time. Every sip, every bite, every step is part of a path already traced by unseen hands.
Before every result, there must be a cause.
Why did the fusion of a Boggart and a Nuisance Midge result in the birth of a Fear Demon, rather than something more mundane—say, an invisible, jittery Boggart?
Why did Hagrid's hybrid of a magical creature and a magic mushroom not yield something fungal and fleshy, or a parasitic anomaly like the cordyceps fungus?
Why did it, of all things, resemble a Warhammer 40K Greenskin?
That single point of doubt stirred something deeper in Roger's memory.
He recalled a line from the book Ritual Magic is Far More Than Blood Sacrifice, which proposed that celestial bodies—the sun, moon, and stars—hold magical significance only because humanity has collectively believed them to be sacred.
Magic and the thoughts of sentient beings are intertwined. The subconscious will of the many shapes the rules of reality. When that sea of thought builds over generations, it forms self-sustaining rituals, giving rise to entire categories of magical phenomena.
Dragons resist magic, not because of inherent properties, but because humanity believes they can.
Legendary artifacts gain power not merely through alchemy, but because countless minds expect them to hold it.
In 1400 AD, Earth's population hovered around 400 million. By 1900, it reached 1.2 billion. Now, in 1991, it had exceeded 5 billion.
And if the thoughts of 400 million people were enough to birth dragons, phantasms, and enchanted relics… what might the collective will of 5 billion do?
What could it already have done?
Roger felt a cold spark ignite in his mind.
He glanced at Hagrid, the gentle half-giant who stood nearly three and a half meters tall—hardly a theorist of ritual magics. Discussing this with him would be unproductive, maybe even cruel.
So Roger gave a simplified explanation instead: "Warhammer 40K is a tabletop wargame—released by a British company in 1987." A brief history, a polite farewell, and he left.
By the time he exited the Forbidden Forest and returned to Hogwarts, midnight had fallen.
Technically, he was violating curfew. But Roger carried a handwritten note from Dumbledore himself, granting him discretion. Argus Filch, who might have otherwise dragged a student back by the ear, said nothing and averted his eyes.
Roger, for his part, didn't abuse this privilege. He had seen enough chaos in war—he didn't seek it in peace. Only in special circumstances, like the Fear Demon incident or tonight's events, would he invoke that special authority.
There's an old saying: "If I hear the Dao in the morning, I can die in the evening."Roger wasn't quite that dramatic—but the feeling of inspiration slipping away unanswered was intolerable.
Instead of returning to Gryffindor Tower, he made his way to the eighth floor and stood before a blank stretch of wall. A few silent steps later, the entrance to the Room of Requirement revealed itself.
It was one of the few spaces in Hogwarts where he could safely conduct the kind of experiments he was about to attempt.
Once inside, Roger drew his wand. A new magical development was about to begin—one he had never tried before.
The theory was simple.
Magic is a miracle born from belief.
The collective will of sentient beings holds weight. It shapes outcomes.
So—if a concept becomes deeply embedded in the public consciousness… if millions believe in its plausibility… could magic be more likely to respond in that direction?
In other words:
If the Jedi's lightsaber becomes an icon etched into global memory, would it become easier for wizards to develop plasma blade spells?
If Hidetaka Miyazaki releases another hit game, would "doors that only open from one side" become a subconsciously accepted law—so much so that certain rooms begin obeying that mechanic without instruction?
Roger suspected that this was more than theory.
Warhammer still held sway over a sizable chunk of the gaming world's subconscious thought. Perhaps that very cultural influence subtly tipped the scales—nudging probability, warping magical outcomes.
Maybe that's why Hagrid's experiment gave birth to something so eerily familiar.
And tonight, in the Room of Requirement, Roger intended to find out if this theory was true.
Roger had chosen to focus his experiment on a particularly potent current of collective thought.
It was December 1991—the final days of the Cold War.
And in recent years, the most pervasive and powerful fear across all of humanity… was the looming threat of nuclear annihilation.
Breakfast at Hogwarts was typically a pleasant affair. The food was good, and if a student didn't quite take to the menu, they could speak to the house-elves and have it adjusted to their taste.
But today, something unusual disrupted the calm hum of morning chatter.
It wasn't a dramatic 'Howler' echoing across the Great Hall, nor some prank gone wrong.
No—it was the massive, floating metal coffin that glided silently over the heads of the students.
All four house tables fell into stunned silence as the lead-lined object hovered toward the staff table.
"…Roger, what are you doing?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply, already recognizing the signature behind the spellwork.
Only one student could pull off that level of finesse with a levitation charm—and only one would dare.
Inside the coffin, Roger's muffled voice echoed:"Um. Minor mishap with a magic experiment, Professor. Could I trouble you to contact someone outside the school? I need to make a purchase."
"A what?"
"A Geiger counter."
Silence.
Roger had spent the night experimenting with magic rooted in the dominant fears of the era. And nothing symbolized Cold War dread more than nuclear energy. It was an idea burned into the global subconscious—especially after the Chernobyl disaster just five years earlier.
His magical direction had been split between two possibilities:One, a spell centered on massive, instantaneous explosions.The other—far more subtle, far more terrifying—was radiation.
Roger chose the latter. Explosions would pose too much risk on school grounds. But radiation? Contained within a lead coffin and with his own magical resistance, it was relatively safe to test.
"I'm fine," he added. "I took precautions."
Professor McGonagall, who had lived long enough among Muggles to know exactly what a Geiger counter did, gave him a long, stern look."You're a Seer," she said finally. "You already know what lines not to cross. Just… be careful."
"I will." Roger's voice was calm, but his thoughts were still consumed by the results of his night-long experiment.
He hadn't succeeded in fully developing a radiation-based spell. He could create it, but not yet control it.
Yet even that was proof enough.
Roger was intimately familiar with his own magical development abilities. He could tell—undeniably—that working with this theme had been easier. Not dramatically so, but significantly. A measurable difference.
It wasn't in his imagination.
Later, Roger found Professor McGonagall again in her office, and laid out his findings.
He slid a set of notes across the desk. "Professor, may I ask you something?"
McGonagall adjusted her glasses and glanced at the title of the manuscript."...Alaya Magic?"
"Exactly," Roger said.
"In theory, the 'Alaya' is the collective consciousness of humanity—an idea that has surfaced in both magical and Muggle thought. I believe it can be leveraged to develop magic more efficiently."
Professor McGonagall gave him a curious look.
"I know we're bound by the International Statute of Secrecy," Roger continued, "but influencing the collective consciousness doesn't require us to reveal ourselves. We could invest quietly—supporting Muggle entertainment industries. Games, films, anime… mediums that plant specific ideas into public thought."
"If used wisely, this wouldn't allow us to create impossible things from nothing… but it would make it easier to develop certain types of magic. It would guide public belief—and in turn, subtly shape magical development."
"In essence, this could accelerate wizarding innovation across the board."
He paused. "And the risk is minimal."
McGonagall tapped a finger against her desk, deep in thought.
Roger leaned forward, eyes bright with conviction."What do you think, Professor? Is this idea… feasible?"
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